My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark
by JustABrokeSouthernGeek
Summary: They're working a case when it happens. Some rich guy, whole bunch of shit stolen or something like that. Harry wasn't exactly paying attention when Perry was telling him about it, to busy watching the latest episode of Hell's Kitchen and stuffing his face with potato chips. {None Beta'd}


They're working a case when it happens. Some rich guy, whole bunch of shit stolen or something like that. Harry wasn't exactly paying attention when Perry was telling him about it, to busy watching the latest episode of Hell's Kitchen and stuffing his face with potato chips. It isn't until after Perry forcefully pushes his feet off the coffee table and hauls him to his feet that he realizes what's going on or at least he's pretending to know what's going on. Something about a guy name Jerry? Or Maybe it was Michael? He doesn't have the slightest clue and he isn't about ask Perry to repeat himself because Perry really fucking hates when he does that. But the case itself really isn't what is important, or well it is because without it Harry would have never fucking realized he's beginning to get a little more than attached to his fellow detective.

There's plenty guns and running. Lots of name calling and Perry asking if he's lost his fucking mind, which by this point he's sure he has because Perry is a fucking guy. A guy with a dick and he's not gay. He likes girls. Boobs, Pussy. The whole package. In fact he's got more than one pin-up in his room and a whole lot of other shit hidden away underneath his bed with a carton of cigarettes. He's suppose to be trying to quit smoking. He's not, but he told Perry he was to get the man off his back and maybe save himself a slap in the back of the head. Apparently there's higher changes of lung cancer and a whole other shit problems, but he kind of needs them right about now. Fuck. Does that mean Perry cares about him too? He's pretty fucking sure that it does, except he's called a moron more than not. Then there is the fact Perry keeps saving his ass and lets him live in his house and play detective with him even though he's pretty terrible at it. He would said he was a better thief, but he was pretty terrible with that too. It's one of the reasons he's got priors in a few other states. Fuck this is all really confusing, isn't it? And he just needs to think.

He boots it upstairs and into his room before Perry can even ask him what he wants on the celebration pizza, slamming the door behind him. His fingers glide over the controls of his speakers, fiddling until the sweet sounds of Bon Jovi fills the air. Living on a Prayer doesn't exactly fit his situation. Then again it does and fuck even his own playlists are against him now. He struggles to throw off his hoodie before sinking down to his knees and pulling out his secret stash. He took the batteries out of the fire alarm months ago the first time when he lit up and the damn thing beeped until Perry came running and caught him red fucking handed with the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He isn't looking for a repeat on the lecture or the 'Jesus Fucking Christ, Harry' that's going to come with it. In fact, he's looking to avoid Perry all together.

Harry throws himself onto the bed flicking his lighter until the sweet taste of nicotine feels his mouth and nostrils. His head leans back against the headboard, silently counting the tiles on the ceiling until he can actually fucking breath again. Think again. What the fuck is he doing? He's /not/ gay. Fuck. He's up on his feet again, underneath the bed again digging through his collection of dirty magazines. Jugs. Playboy. Busty Asians. He's not even sure why he bought some of this shit. He picks out the August Playboy. The centerfold is to die for. Not to mention the girl on page seven. Perfect rack, nice size and they'd probably fit nicely into the palms of his hands. Girls. Boobs. Pussy.

He's flipping through the pages as he settles back onto the bed, flicking his ashes into a cup of water on the bedside table. Normally he's not this damn perverted. This damn needy, but he needs to know if he's broken. If this is actually a 'thing' or if it isn't. He's a little more than revealed when he actually does feel his dick getting hard. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, breathing it out through his nose as he slowly reaches to undo the button of his jeans, pushes down the zipper. He's wearing boxers underneath because it's a really fucking bad idea not to. No idea when someone is going to grab him again and attach a car battery to his balls. Once in this life time is enough, but if it does happen again he still wants to look fucking decent. His head falls back again as his warm hands wraps around his cock. He wishes he had some lube, something to make this whole fucking process easier. But then again he really should be downstairs getting ready to eat pizza with Perry. Instead he's upstairs jacking off. Really fucking great, Harry. Fucking perfect.

The magazine has reached the centerfold when a loud knocking at his door catches him off guard or well a better way to describe is scares the fucking crap out of him. His hand jerks away from his cock in an instant, almost like it's a hot eye on a oven. The cigarette drops from his lips and onto his shirt and fucking Christ that fucking burns. He's tripping over his own pants as he tries to put out the orange bud, a thud echoing as he hits the floor.  
"What the fuck are you doing in there, Harry?"

"Uh, Nothing. Hang on." He pushes himself upwards to his feet, hopping as he tries to pull his jeans back over his hips. Buttoning them hastily before throwing open the door, leaning against it with his best innocent grin. The one that Perry never fucking buys. "Hey there, Perry…Pizza here yet?"

He can literally fucking feel the other man's gaze as he looks him up and down. That stern 'I don't even know what the fuck you're up to' look clear. He can smell the smoke. Harry knows he fucking can because he hadn't had the time to febreeze the fucking place to hell or cut on the ceiling fan. He doesn't say anything about it. Thank Fucking God.

"Fucking disgusting, Harry. Really? Zip your pants and wash your goddamn hands before you come down…I don't want to taste your dick when I'm going for another slice."

Harry nods his head quickly, agreeing.

"Yeah. Sure. No problem."

Perry turns to leave, already on the first step before he pauses and turns around. "And, Harry…"

"Yeah?"

"Don't take all fucking night."

He doesn't breath again until Perry's downstairs again. His mind just as clouded as it ever was because fuck. This was so fucking wrong and he was straight. He isn't gay except now, but now he can't get the imagine of naked Perry out of his head. He hasn't even seen the other man's cock and he's picturing it. Imagine what it looks like, tastes like, feels like. He sinks back into his room because shit he's going to need a few more minutes. There's something fucking wrong with him because the thought of Perry has him harder than before.

There's something wrong with him, really fucking wrong with him because he shouldn't be jacking off to his best friend.

"Fucking great, Harry…" he mutters to himself as he stretches on the bed once again, hand wrapping back his aching cock once again. This time he doesn't even try to pretend that he doesn't want Perry. He just gives in. He comes with Perry's name on his lips, his forehead caked in sweat. When he does join Perry downstairs, he tries to pretend that nothing happened and everything is fucking hunky-dory. Whatever the fuck that means. Fuck. He has a thing for Perry. This is just wrong. Now he just has to figure out what the fuck he's going to do about it. There isn't exactly a book for these types of things or maybe there is. He doesn't fucking know. What he does know is that he's screwed and he kind of wants to be screwed. Fuck.

He better just eat his fucking pizza and quit thinking about all this shit.


End file.
